


when the evening shadows and the stars appear

by hudders-and-hiddles (huddersandhiddles)



Series: Tumbling Hudders [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, First Kiss, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Short & Sweet, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 12:14:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4606413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huddersandhiddles/pseuds/hudders-and-hiddles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Sherlock lets his eyes linger for a moment on the guests dancing there and wishes, for the millionth or so time in his life, that he were a different kind of man–perhaps the kind who feels comfortable asking a stranger to dance, or, better yet, asking the one person he really wants to hold in his arms as they spin gracefully around the floor, eyes locked on one another, the world around them melting away. But Sherlock isn’t that kind of man.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock and John go to a wedding. For both of them, it drags up memories of John's wedding and all the feelings they both associate with that day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when the evening shadows and the stars appear

**Author's Note:**

> This comes from my expanding collection of tumblr ficlets. It has therefore not been beta'ed or Britpicked.

After the vows had been exchanged, they had all sat down to dinner under a sky painted rose and heather and tangerine by the setting sun, the faintest flecks of stars beginning to peek through. Now that the food has been eaten, the happy couple toasted, the champagne drunk, and the dancing begun, Sherlock finds himself alone at a table, looking around at nothing in particular. John has excused himself to give his regards to the newlyweds, and everyone else has made their way to the patio-turned-dance floor. Sherlock lets his eyes linger for a moment on the guests dancing there and wishes, for the millionth or so time in his life, that he were a different kind of man–perhaps the kind who feels comfortable asking a stranger to dance, or, better yet, asking the one person he really wants to hold in his arms as they spin gracefully around the floor, eyes locked on one another, the world around them melting away. But Sherlock isn’t that kind of man.

The memory of the last time he had wanted to dance at a wedding needles him, and Sherlock has to fight to tamp down the regret and sadness he still feels about that entire situation. Yes, John is back at Baker Street now and Mary is long gone, but part of Sherlock still hates that he hadn’t been more vocal about his desires, that he hadn’t tried harder to stop John from marrying her. He knows it’s selfish–though he tells himself it would have saved both of them a lot of pain and suffering in the long run. The whole thing fills him with self-loathing. He hadn’t been good enough to peg Mary as the liar she really was from the start. He hadn’t been brave enough to tell John how he felt. And in the end he hadn’t been quick enough to prevent Mary from absconding with John’s daughter, both of them disappearing into the night like phantoms. The guilt eats at Sherlock until he pushes himself away from the table and slips into the darkness. He follows the low garden wall to the farthest corner, well outside the warm sphere of light cast by the lanterns surrounding the patio. Sherlock lifts his long legs carefully up and over before taking a seat on the wall, facing out at the surrounding hills looming nearly invisible in the darkness. He could really use a cigarette. Instead he watches the stars emerge as his vision adjusts, and when the slight autumn breeze ruffles his hair, he wishes he had thought to bring his coat.

Soft footsteps behind him. An all-too-familiar cadence. John.

“There you are. I was wondering where you’d got off to.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hums noncommittally. John stops just behind him, close enough that Sherlock could lean his head back against John’s chest if he wanted to. And he does want to. But he doesn’t move. Since John has come home, they seem to have found their rhythm again, and Sherlock doesn’t want to screw that up. Sometimes though, there are little touches–John’s arm glancing off Sherlock’s as they walk, John’s fingers brushing across his as John hands him a cup of tea, John’s hand gently squeezing Sherlock’s bicep in an occasional gesture of… friendship? understanding? support? Sherlock isn’t sure. He also isn’t sure if they actually happen more often now or if he just notices them more often now that he is more attuned to the effect that John has on him. Either way, he doesn’t think that his head resting on John’s chest would be welcome. It’s too… intimate. And so he restrains the desire that pulses through him with every beat of his heart.

John clambers over the wall, his shorter legs making the movement far less graceful than Sherlock’s had been, and takes a seat next to him. Sherlock can feel the fabric of John’s suit jacket catch ever so slightly on his own where their arms graze against each other. They sit in companionable silence, the strains of a recent pop hit floating gently away from the cottage, past where they’re huddled on the wall, and out into the open night.

John eventually breaks the silence with a quiet sigh. “I never should have gotten married.”

Sherlock secretly agrees but would never say so to John. Instead he tells John, “You couldn’t have known how it would turn out. Even I couldn’t see that.” But I  _should_ have, he thinks, and the reminder of his own failure stings. He swallows hard before continuing, saying with a small shrug, “You loved her. It was the right choice at the time.”

John goes quiet again, and Sherlock doesn’t push. He knows John needs space in order to talk about these kinds of things, and Sherlock is willing to give him all the room he needs to say what he needs to say, what Sherlock  _hopes_  he is trying to say. Maybe the cover of darkness helps because it isn’t long before John shakes his head lightly and replies. “No. It was the wrong choice. I did love her, but it was still the wrong choice.”

Sherlock holds his breath and silently begs John to say what he hopes to hear, but when it’s clear that John isn’t going to go on, Sherlock musters up all of his courage and asks, “Why?”

John turns to look at Sherlock, but Sherlock can’t bring himself to look back at John, terrified of finding the wrong answer written on that expressive face. He can feel John watching him for a long while, but Sherlock manages to keep his gaze steady on the stars hovering just over the distant horizon. Finally, his voice barely more than a whisper, John asks, “Do you really not know?”

The sadness in John’s voice makes Sherlock finally turn to meet his gaze. He wants to tell John that he can see it on his face when they catch each other’s eye sometimes. That he hears it in John’s voice when he says  _brilliant_ ,  _amazing_ ,  _fantastic_. That he feels it when John’s fingers linger on his skin. Or he thinks he does, at least, and that’s the problem. He _thinks_  that it’s possible John feels something for him. He  _hopes_  that that’s the truth of it. But he doesn’t  _know_.

“John, I…” Sherlock finally manages, but then John is standing up. Sherlock worries he’s somehow done something wrong, that his long silence has driven John away, but John steps carefully in front of him and holds out a hand. Sherlock eyes it warily, unsure what John is asking him to do, but when John’s fingers briefly curl and flatten again, he takes it as the sign it is and places his own hand in John’s smaller one and allows John to pull him to his feet. Sherlock moves to drop his hand, but John squeezes it tighter and drags them both a few steps farther from the garden wall. John turns back to Sherlock and pulls him closer. Sherlock’s mind is preoccupied with mapping the exact way John’s hand feels in his own, so it catches him entirely by surprise when John slips an arm around his back and lifts their joined hands higher, maneuvering them into the closed dance position Sherlock had taught him not so long ago.

“Alright?” John asks carefully, as he tentatively begins to lead them around the small patch of recently mowed grass just outside the garden. Stunned into silence by this turn of events, Sherlock can only nod in response. John’s body pressed lightly against his feels just as he remembers it from their lessons, but somehow everything is different, too. Because this time it’s real. He’s not pretending to be Mary. He doesn’t have to pretend to be anyone at all. Out here in the dark, swaying softly in John’s arms, he can be himself for once. The arm around his back tightens, nestling him more closely against John’s body, pressing them together from hips to chest and making it somewhat difficult to continue moving their feet in time to the music. Sherlock revels in the sensation, losing himself in the pressure of John’s steady hand against his spine, the scent  of John’s aftershave lingering in the air around them, the soft thump of John’s heartbeat echoing in his own chest. He allows himself a moment to catalogue all of it, to lock all these details in the John wing of his mind palace, before forcing himself back to the here and now.

Gentle guitar notes continue to drift past them, and Sherlock, finally fully back in the present, catches a snippet of the words.  _I’ve known it from the moment that we met. No doubt in my mind where you belong._  He looks into John’s eyes, glittering in the starlight, their faint smiles mirrored on each other’s lips, and Sherlock knows that this is it. This is their moment, and bending his head down until their lips meet is the easiest thing he’s ever done. The kiss is gentle and tender, as a first kiss should be when you’ve waited so long for it. Their lips slide sweetly against each other, parting ever-so-slightly to let the barest hint of tongues slip past.

When they pull away, John looks as overcome as Sherlock feels. Sherlock lets his hand slide up John’s arm to his neck, tugging gently until John rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. They both close their eyes and let the moment wash through them. They’re barely swaying anymore; it could hardly be called dancing at all. But still they hold tight to each other, afraid to let go now that they’ve finally found this.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this while listening to the Mick McAuley & Winifred Horan version of "Make You Feel My Love", which of course became the song that they dance to (and where the title comes from). You can check it out [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8jY6mFKQQCU).
> 
>  
> 
> You can find me on tumblr as [hudders-and-hiddles](http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com).


End file.
